


Shoot & Score

by pfaerie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:58:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8528710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pfaerie/pseuds/pfaerie
Summary: That basketball in the rec room personally challenges Soldier: 76.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for @HeroFrequency back in June, though I decided to make some big edits before posting it here. She'd spent weeks trying to get the ball in the hoop as Soldier: 76 and Genji only to accidentally do it with Reaper. Pre-confetti patch too!

Soldier: 76 is a couple- _ okay more than a couple- _ years out of his prime, but he’s just as spry, if not more so, than any of the new kids Overwatch was recruiting these days. He could still shoot a moving target, even one as fast as Tracer, from 250 yards away  _ without _ his tactical visor. His hand-to-hand combat and reflexes were still twice as fast as any normal soldier thanks to the serums injected into him by the SEP. To top it all off, he was armed with tactical training, maneuvers, and knowledge that  _ only _ come with age.

All stuff the kids of Overwatch didn’t seem to appreciate nowadays-but then it’s hard to compete with time travel, spirit dragons, and a literal talking ape. The new Overwatch enjoyed many a victory thanks to the, objectively less cool, vigilante. They’d secured a couple footholds all over the world, delivered a couple payloads, hell even some of the Talon agents were on their side now. Hell, he’d dealt some serious blows to Los Muertos before the new Overwatch, and before that, well. Soldier: 76 had an impressive track record and he wasn’t about to let a God damned child’s game tarnish the years and years of superior skill and specialized training.

He tosses the basketball for what feels like the thousandth time and watches it spectacularly fly through the air and smack the metal panel next to the backboard of the hoop.

“What are you doing?” comes a grating voice from the doorway. Soldier: 76 snaps his head towards Reaper, who is leaning against the metal frame with his arms crossed. Soldier: 76 can’t see his face, but the man just seems to be giving off an impatient air, waiting for an explanation for...whatever the hell that just was.

Soldier: 76 doesn’t have an answer.

“What’s it look like?” Classic avoidance. The ball rolls under the foosball table, which may or may not be missing a couple plastic players that were mysteriously snapped in half after Soldier: 76 started tossing the ball around. 

“Looks like you’re going to throw out your back playing a children’s game,” Reaper says. He uncrosses his arms, placing one on his wide hip. Does Soldier: 76 detect a hint of... _ amusement? _ From the self-proclaimed Harbinger of Death itself? He rolls his eyes and fishes the basketball out from underneath the table, trying to ignore the gut-twisting embarrassment he’s feeling right now. “How have you missed thirty-seven times in a row?”

“I have not missed th-”

“And that’s just what I saw.” Reaper pauses before adding, “you can’t be seriously that bad.”

Soldier:76 frowns, squeezing the ball tightly before giving it an experimental dribble. “How long have you been watching me?”

Reaper holds up a clawed hand, ignoring the question. “Don’t you shoot guns for a living? You have, what, a hundred years experience with weapons? That ingrate with the cowboy hat could do this. Even that one with the mech could do this.”

“First of all,” Soldier:76 argues, “I shoot guns and rockets. They don’t arc.”

Silence.

“Your excuse. Is that the ball  _ arcs?” _ Reaper asks, exasperation positively dripping off his scratchy voice. He brings a hand up to his mask and pinches the bridge of the skull’s nose as if it actually would do anything to relieve pressure.  _ What a drama queen. _

“I didn’t play basketball in high school,” Soldier: 76 tries.

“Basketball wasn’t invented when you were in high school,” Reaper shoots back, though it almost sounds like a joke instead of an insult.

“Don’t you have some children to scare or some monochrome clothes to buy?” He recalls Winston using a similar insult before and it shut Reaper up.

“I’d rather watch you completely fail at this game some more.”

Soldier: 76 shrugs and tosses the ball as nonchalantly as possible. It doesn’t go in the hoop, but it does bounce off the rim which is the closest he’s gotten all day. It almost smacks Reaper in the face, but he catches it. Soldier: 76 is surprised the damn thing doesn’t pop on one of the man’s obnoxious gloves.

“You’re missing on purpose,” Reaper accuses. “There is no way you’re actually this terrible.” He drags his right index finger along the black ribs of the ball, scratching off a small trail of the paint to reveal to orange beneath.

“I actually am this terrible.” 

Reaper dribbles the ball effortlessly, switching hands and even bouncing it between his legs for a little extra flourish. When he stops in front of Soldier: 76, he balances it on one claw and spins it confidently. The smugness is practically radiating off of him. Soldier: 76 snatches the ball and turns away, dribbling it with as much coordination he can muster with Reaper trying to reach around him and slap the ball away. The squeak of Reaper’s leather jumpsuit rubbing against Soldier: 76’s leather jacket fills the room and the latter hopes nobody walks in to see two grown men all but wrestling for a bright orange ball.

He eventually manages to get away with the ball in hand. He tosses the ball, and for once it actually looks like it’s going to glide easily into the net until Reaper jumps up and slaps it out of the air with more force than necessary. The orange ball is a blur as it sails into the lockers lining the wall. Reaper cackles when Soldier: 76 crosses his arms.

“That wasn’t necessary,” he complains.

“It was,” Reaper argues as he chases after the ball, stopping it with his foot. He juggles it like a soccer ball before balancing it on his foot and kicking it up effortlessly.

“Hey, Jack,” Reaper says.

“What?” He ignores that Reaper uses his real name.

“How does it feel knowing you’re about to get fucking destroyed?” Reaper laughs. He doesn’t even look at the hoop before tossing the ball in its general direction. Despite the masks, they’re making direct eye contact until Soldier: 76 looks away to watch the ball. It sails gracefully through the air, bounces off the square of the backboard, and then:

_ Swish! _

The ball falls straight down and bounces to a complete stop. Soldier: 76’s jaw drops as he whips his head back at Reaper, who has his arms out in front of him, fingers articulated to look like guns.

_ “Eat your heart out, Kobe.” _

Reaper- _ no, Gabriel since the fucker is so intent on using Jack’s name _ -is flush up against him now, hands on Jack’s shoulders. He’s since shed his leather jacket and Gabriel passes a comment about how he “still won’t acknowledge he’s a XXL now instead of an M” after the SEP. He kicks the backs of Jack’s knees, forcing him to bend.

“Your feet are still too close together,” Gabriel points out. “You wanna get knocked over?”

“I feel ridiculous. You didn’t bend your knees,” Jack complains. He feels like he’s standing exactly the same way that he was before and that Gabriel is just messing with him.

“I know how to shoot the ball,” Gabriel says, voice a low rumble right in Jack’s ear. He’s pulled up his mask, just so that the lower half of his face was visible, when Jack had taken off his and the hairs of his unruly beard tickle. He pulls away and it takes everything for Jack to not lean back with him. Gabriel lets out a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “I think you’re getting worse with me around.”

“What’s that saying? This old dog can’t learn any new tricks?” Jack laughs. “I’m gonna go to the grave not being able to do this.”

“What’re you gonna do? Fake your death?” There’s a pause. “Again?”

“Ha. Ha.”

“C’mon, old dog.  _ Again _ .” 

Jack clears his throat when Gabriel touches him. He’s guiding his hand into place, squaring his shoulders, sliding his hands down Jack’s sides in a way that tickles despite the claws. He puts a hand on either one of Jack’s hips, guiding them back and down as he knees at Jack’s legs to get him to squat a bit more. Jack feels like he’s on fire.

“-ing to me?” 

He doesn’t catch the first part of what Gabriel says, and automatically responds with a quick, “Yea.” Gabriel chuckles, hot breath ghosts over the shell of Jack’s ear. His legs feel like they’re going to turn into spaghetti.

“Really?” Gabriel purrs, like some big, deadly cat. “What did I say?”

“Something about spreading my legs,” Jack says without thinking. He doesn’t realize the unfortunate wording until after Gabriel laughs-actually laughs-at him. It’s low and breathy and- _ oh God _ , he sounds good when he does more than a chuckle.

“Yea, something like that,” he says after regaining his composure. Jack, on the other hand, completely loses his and his knees buckle. The ball slips out of his hands, bouncing into the corner of the room. Gabriel graciously doesn’t let him fall on his ass and hooks his arms under Jack’s. 

“I was joking when I said you had to fake your death to get out of this, Jack.”

“For the love of God, stop talking,” Jack groans as he regains his footing. He spins around, but only makes himself dizzier. Gabriel steadies him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his side. Gabriel lets out a sound of surprise when Jack lurches forward to crush their mouths together, stumbling backwards. He tastes like a campfire, like ash and smoke. He wraps his arms around Gabriel’s neck and Gabriel’s hands find their way to his ass. 

Jack’s nose bumps the mask when he tilts his head. Gabriel bites his lip just a touch too hard, and Jack silently prays he’ll do it again when- _ oh God, was that tongue? Yep. That’s freakin’ tongue. _

He feels like he’s on fire, and wonders if Gabriel does too. Do revived-from-the-dead-people get hot under the collar? Jack’s trying to figure out when they got on the floor, when he started stradling Gabriel’s thighs, when Gabriel got a clawed hand under his shirt. He likes the soft pain that blossoms under the smooth metal, making it hard to care about anything that wasn’t directly in contact with Gabriel. 

He’s being kissed absolutely breathless. Speaking of...he really needs to breathe. He reluctantly pulls away, breath coming in ragged pants. And fuck. Gabriel’s full lips are bruised and kiss swollen. His mask has been pushed all the way up and tight black ringlets pour over his forehead. His eyes look different, red instead of the chocolate brown Jack remembers.

“I should teach you how to do things more often,” Gabriel rasps..

“Attempt to anyways.” Jack lifts his chin and Gabriel scrapes his teeth against the exposed flesh of Jack’s throat, letting out a sound of annoyance at the lack of skin actually available. Jack yelps when Gabriel flips them over, planting one hand by Jack’s head and the other on Jack’s thigh. 

They’re back to kissing each other, rougher than they probably should in a place that they definitely should not be doing this. There’s an involuntary twitch of Jack’s hips and everything feels...off. His mind is still half blank and his mouth must have stopped working because Gabriel pulls away with a groan.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“I-” Jack starts. He tries to move and finally he locates the source. “Back,” he chokes.

“What?”

“You broke my back. Take me to the hospital."

Gabriel howls with laughter and jumps to his feet. “Fuck, you’re old!” he teases before running into the hall, calling for Angela. Jack’s not sure if it would be less embarrassing to tell her that he threw out his back making out with  _ Reaper _ like a horny teenager or that he’d spent the better part of three hours missing baskets.


End file.
